Assuming the disguise of a black menial was the last thing he would have suspected a haughty British officer to do!
Oh, but the disappointment was a bitter one! He had expected promotion. Certainly he had earned it. Now, that hope was gone. His blunder was the jest of his comrades, who would call after him: “Nigger in the woodpile, nigger on the box.”
Morgan, troubled with rheumatism, had gone to his home in Winchester for the winter. The army was half starved and poorly clothed, and to make matters worse, it was generally understood that these hardships were due to corruption and incompetency; for there were some in authority, in those days, who were greedy, dishonest and hard-hearted.
Young Allison had occasion to visit the camp at Valley Forge and the sights he saw there never left his memory. Wretchedness and misery were on every side. How did Washington, knowing as he must that these conditions were unnecessary under proper management, how could he hope ever to save the country?
Who was that haggard fellow with bare feet wrapped in rags and little but an old horse blanket to keep out the wintry wind? Angus? Yes, no doubt of it!
“Hi, Rod! Say, you fellers as hev breeches ought ter bring us in a bite ter eat. What’s the good o’ your foragin’ if yer don’t?”
“I haven’t had a mouthful since last night, myself. 245 How are you, anyway? I don’t see how you men can stay here and bear it.”
“Many of us wouldn’t if we’d the duds ter git away in. It’s a hard road ter Charlottesville fer bare feet.”
“I’m beginning to feel like taking it. When we drive the British out of the Quaker City then we’ll apply for a furlough, eh, Angus?”
“I’d go this minute if I could.”